Hasta Siempre
by Stormcrown201
Summary: At the Warden's funeral, Zevran muses on the love that he lost as quickly as he gained it.


**Author's Note:** Written for a Reddit writing prompt!

'Hasta siempre' is Spanish for 'goodbye forever'. It's used when you don't expect to see somebody again for a very long time, perhaps forever.

* * *

"Some of us even loved him," Alistair says.

_I don't recall giving you permission to say that,_ Zevran thinks, but there's no real acid in it. Maybe there ought to be, but it's not like most people here know who 'some of us' refers to, and… there's Elior. Still and silent on a stone slab, looking peaceful. Too peaceful, too still, too… everything except what he ought to be. Elior in life is fierce and proud and strong, a fire burning bright, his laughter loud and his eyes glittering, nothing hidden in the planes of his face—vivacious, in a word.

Well, he _was_.

There are hundreds here, elves and dwarves and nobles and commoners and mages and templars and who knows what else, but he doesn't see them. What the exit points are, where an assassin might strike, all the things he's always taken care to note—he doesn't now. There's just Elior, still and silent, and not…

_Alive._

"You promised me a dance, _amor_, as I recall, when this is over," Zevran had said to him that last night at Redcliffe.

"What sort of _dancing_ are we talking about?" Elior had asked. "Drunken, glad-to-be-alive dancing, real dancing, or _dancing_?" He'd quirked an eyebrow at him, and Zevran had laughed.

"_Real_ dancing, my dear man. Though I wouldn't object to the other two _afterwards_."

Elior had chuckled. "Duly noted. You'll have your dance, then, Zev. Didn't you say something about teaching me Antivan dancing…?"

"I did. You have a good memory. But I'm sure we'll be in no state for such activities after we're done kicking the archdemon back into whatever hole it crawled out of."

Elior's chuckling had turned into a strange sort of laughter that should have tipped Zevran off. It wasn't like his laugh at all. It was… strained, and reedy, and wrong. But he had thought nothing of it, presuming nerves. "I'm sure. Well, tell me when you're ready. An Antivan dance… the things you've got me doing."

Zevran had looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. "No stranger than the things _other people_ have had you doing," he'd pointed out.

His _amor_ had laughed again, more strangely yet. "True. Hopefully that all ends soon. Then I won't do any strange things for anyone anymore but you. Promise." Zevran had grinned and kissed him, and stroked his hair and revelled in how beautiful it was to have given his heart to someone and received theirs in return, in how _alive_ it made him feel. After only a few weeks, the feeling was still fresh and so very wonderful.

Limerence, he thinks it's called. Love in its early stages of _being_ love.

_Did you lie, amor,_ he wonders bitterly, as a young Dalish boy who they've improbably run into twice stands before the crowd and begins to sing _In Uthenera_. Beside him, Leliana's knees buckle, and Wynne grabs her and holds her as she sobs. _Or did circumstances change?_ He hopes it was the latter. Elior was too free with his emotions to be a good liar. So hopefully it was the latter… but the way he _laughed_…

Did he mean any of what he'd said? Or had he known in advance…?

They call it a victory, but the cheering after it was over rang hollow, the celebrating crowds seemed like an insult. If his heart hadn't been ripped so violently from his chest while it was still beating strong with fresh hope and love in its early stages of being love, he might have been angry. But that had been quite beyond him. All he could think of was the ashes in his hands that only he could see.

Only a few weeks. A few weeks of life and fire and _hope_, of seeing how beautiful it was that they existed… and now he's right back to where he started.

What was the point, if it was going to end like this? What has he gained out of this but bad memories and another corpse to add to the collection, another blow to his heart that he half-wishes had killed him?

Again. And again. This sounds so familiar…

The Dalish boy finishes singing—a life Elior saved, something he would have been proud of—and Elior's family step forth. They speak in turn of their cousin and son. The young man, whatever his name is, is blank; the woman barely holds herself together as she talks of how Elior had saved her and other women from an arl's monstrous son. The older man speaks a little longer, but again and again he returns to one point, and his words are incoherent.

"He would have been nineteen today… I…"He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I keep coming back to that. Today was his birthday. I had expected, this time last year, that by now he would be married and perhaps even expecting a child. Instead, he…" His voice breaks. "He is a hero of all Ferelden, a saviour of humans and elves alike. That is something any father can be proud of." But his tone makes it clear it is no consolation.

Nor is it for him. A hero, yes, who died honourably. For his honour, perhaps? Elior always was so righteous… _I didn't ask that of you,_ Zevran thinks, and his blood abruptly runs hot in his veins. _To die for your stupid honour! Was some concept of honour more important than your family? Than me?_

That, he'll never know.

The event carries on for hours, and Zevran alternates between extremes of hot, cold, and nothing at all, all the while his face remains utterly impassive. None who did not know would guess that he is the 'some of us' Alistair mentioned. That is for the best; an assassin's greatest armour is anonymity, and what is he now if not an assassin?

His way of life is death. Did he expect anything else from this? Was he so foolish?

In the end, he only stirs when Elior's body is lifted off the stone slab and placed into the carriage. As several guards restrain the howling dog, who looks set to follow the carriage, Zevran places a foot forward before he can stop himself. But he reconsiders as quickly. There is no point in making a scene here. There are other ways for him to say goodbye.

They slide the lid over the top of the carriage, and that is the last Zevran will ever see of him—as simple as that. All around, people bow their heads and press their fists to their chests in farewell, but he cannot bring himself to do the same. It will make no difference. There was beauty in life, fire and hope—now it is all held within a carriage that will soon be leaving for Weisshaupt. The victory is hollow. Death is all there'll ever be. Why fight it?

"_Hasta siempre, amor,_" he murmurs as the carriage begins to roll away. One more journey, to a land Elior never knew, and all that could have been—adventures and dances and Antiva and _life_—goes with him. "We may see each other again sooner than you think."

Not what Elior would want. But Zevran didn't want this, either.

The crowd begins to disperse, and he is left to wonder how he could have been so foolish as to get his hopes up like that, and to sift through the ashes still in his hands.


End file.
